I should clarify that I cannot dance. I can’t jive, boogie, or even waltz—and that’s on a good day. So as I perch myself on an unsteady chair, missing a leg but still possessing a wobble more rhythmic than mine, I wonder, not for the first time, why I agreed to accompany Martha to her Zumba class. It isn’t the personal embarrassment I fear (I am wont to bust out an awkward shake just for the laughs) nor is it the sweat; instead, I worry that Martha will recognize my tap and my twist for what they actually are, a tremble. Even though Martha is seventy years old, I don’t doubt her ability to move. I have seen her swiftly juggle coffee mugs and conquer the top cabinet in her kitchen, an impressive feat for a woman no taller than my shoulders, and I am an average five foot five inches.
Huffing and puffing, I attempt to keep up with Martha and those around us, who triple and even quadruple me in age. “Shake!” the instructor shouts, and the women around me clap and hoot as our hips, even the artificial ones, swivel and swerve to the rapid beat blaring from the speakers. My hardly worn sneakers betray me, stomping secrets into the floor: “She! Never! Wears! Us!” the fiery salsa, “She can’t dance! So offbeat!” a slow but sleek waltz. I am confident that I stick out like a sore thumb, lagging behind each step and moving leftward when the rest of the class moves right.
Within minutes, beads of sweat have gathered at my lower back and crowned my hairline. I spare a glance at Martha who happily twirls her hands in the air, adding her own flare to the simple step initiated by the instructor. Gleefully, she grabs a hip wrap adorned with golden beads and ties it around her midsection as her favorite song, “Mayonesa,” begins its infectious chorus. Having spent time with Martha, I already know the words and eagerly anticipate the moment I prove myself: “Mayonesa!” the class and I hum in unison, pivoting forwards and backwards as the chorus calls out to not just our ears, but to our legs. Even my fumbling transforms into a graceful two-step. Martha grabs my hand and we complete the song as a duo, causing the class to laugh and interpret the steps in their own unique ways too.
Before I know it, class is over and Martha tugs on my arm, pulling me towards the instructor. With the adrenaline from our workout, but also something more glittering in her eye, I can only humbly watch as she speaks about me to her friends. I introduce myself and hungrily accept what will undoubtedly be the only dance compliments I will ever receive. But it is only when I catch myself singing “Mayonesa” a few days later that I realize why the women complimented me. It wasn’t my shake or groove, though it pains me to admit this, nor was it out of kindness to Martha’s new, young friend; it was because I was nervous, self-conscious, and, yes, a little afraid. I hadn’t discounted them as incapable because of their age, in fact, I had ignored their ages altogether.
I abandoned all the reasons dancing (read: attempting to dance) in front of perfect strangers should have been embarrassing, or ridiculous, or just downright strange in favor of friendship, of dancing. Sure, I may have felt absurd in my attempts to shake my hips, but so did everyone else in the room. In fixating on my own inadequacies, I missed the point: having fun and being with friends. It was not Martha who needed me that night; I needed her.
Having a friend who is sixty years older than you comes with its challenges; having a friend who is sixty years older than you and who seems to have inherited the dancing gene denied to you also comes with its challenges. But underneath these superficial differences is a pulsing beat and a dance studio full of women who uplift one another, and take in even the worst of dancers as their own.
About the Author:
Kelsey is a second year student at Boston College participating in the PULSE program. She is matched with two elders whom she visits with weekly (and sometimes attends dance lessons with) and provides weekly administrative assistance at Little Brothers – Friends of the Elderly office in Jamaica Plain. Kelsey maintains that no dancers were harmed in the making of this post.